


Silver Lining

by allyss



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Elizabeth-centric, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Introspection, Loneliness, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 03:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15832548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyss/pseuds/allyss
Summary: Modern AU - Recently divorced, Elizabeth expected to spend her thirtieth birthday drinking alone at the hotel bar. She never expected to run into George Warleggan of all people.





	Silver Lining

Elizabeth tapped the side of her glass, signalling for the bartender to bring her another.

 

It was just one of those nights.

 

There had been plenty during the course of her ill-fated marriage. Weary of biting her tongue in the face of her husband's jealousy and insecurities or with bitterness churning in the pit of her stomach at the sight of Ross with his pretty new wife, it had been so easy to drink the feelings away. It had been a weakness of her grandfather's and a little voice in the back of her head had always whispered that the same could be said for her if she wasn't careful. But that had been before Geoffrey Charles. 

 

Elizabeth had never expected to be a mother at twenty-five, but she had - naively - thought that it might save her marriage. She hadn't expected to be married at twenty-two either, but for all Francis' shortcomings, she had loved him. She feared she would always have a soft spot in her heart for him, but not even Geoffrey Charles - the sweet, wonderful little boy that he was - could save them. Elizabeth had outgrown him, while Francis - in spite of everything that had transpired between them - would never be able to forget that once, so very long ago now, she had loved Ross, the man she feared he would always stand in the shadow of.

 

The bartender set another drink down in front of her and Elizabeth nodded her thanks. 

 

"Special occasion?" The young man asked to be polite, not casting judgements on the woman sat alone at a bar on a Tuesday night.

 

Elizabeth gave him a tightlipped smile. "It's my birthday."

 

"Oh," the young man's posture straightened and he smiled good-naturedly. "Well, happy birthday."

 

"Thanks."

 

It wasn't how she'd imagined her thirtieth birthday - sitting alone in a hotel bar, getting drunk in the new dress and towering heels she'd bought to cheer herself up. But with Geoffrey Charles at Francis' that week, she had no intention of spending her birthday alone, surrounded by reminders of her failed marriage. So she'd turned down Verity's kind offer to arrange something - knowing it would be a quiet evening filled with awkward silences and sympathetic smiles - and checked herself into a hotel she'd never visited before, in a room that cost more than she could probably afford these days, and spend the day in London using the joint credit card that neither of them had remembered - or bothered - to cancel.  

 

She hadn't expected to leave the comfort of her hotel room - but then her minibar had run out of food and booze. So she'd shed the robe she'd been wearing all afternoon, showered, put on her new dress and made herself look pretty. It made herself feel a little better, looking in the mirror and knowing no one would ever know just how much of a mess she really was. It fooled Francis every time he came to pick Geoffrey Charles up. 

 

While her husband, who couldn't fool a soul and yet thought himself a gambler, wore his heart on his sleeve, Elizabeth had always kept hers well hidden. Francis, with dark circles under his eyes, the beginnings of an ungroomed beard, and rumpled clothes, looked like a beaten dog whenever he turned up at her door. Though he always managed to muster up a smile for Geoffrey Charles, it was always a pitiful thing. She could only imagine the horrible things the people close to them must think, what names they must call her behind closed doors.

 

_Ice queen,_ Francis' lawyer had called her the day the papers were signed. As though he had not been her lawyer once, her friend. Of course Francis - poor, pitiful, pathetic Francis would frame himself as the victim, as though he hadn't been the one who handed her those godforsaken papers in the first place. As though he hadn't been the one who fucked someone else.

 

Elizabeth sipped her drink, grimacing at the way it burned its way down her throat. She pulled out her phone, which she had been neglecting all day, and was unsurprised to find only a missed call from Aunt Agatha. Her parents, who were somewhere in the south of France, had sent her a tasteful bouquet of flowers the week before and a note that some harried, overworked florist had quickly scribbled out. She had received a customary card from Ross and Demelza, as well as some other friends and acquaintances that she'd yet to open. 

 

The only card that mattered sat on her bedside table, handmade and covered in hugs and kisses from her dear, sweet Geoffrey Charles. He'd made her a bracelet made out of small shells, something his new friend Drake - a new boy at school, she presumed - had shown him how to make. She'd put it straight into her jewellery box, knowing it was too precious to risk wearing. She rather regretted that decision now; she wished for some little piece of him to carry with her as proof of his love. Proof that she wasn't alone, no matter how she felt.

 

She settled for unlocking her phone and flicking through her photos. 

 

"This is my son." She found herself saying, showing the bartender, who was hovering nearby with no other customers to occupy his time. The man's brows quirked up, no doubt wondering why she thought he cared, but he soon plastered on a polite smile and leaned in to look at her phone.

 

"Handsome lad. How old is he?" 

 

"He'll be six in October." She told him, unable to help herself from smiling at an older picture of Geoffrey Charles as a toddler, sitting on Francis' shoulders. They'd been on holiday in Ireland. They had been happy then.

 

The bartender smiled as well. "That your husband?"

 

"Ex." Elizabeth gaze dropped and she took back her phone, stuffing it back into her purse. 

 

"Oh, I'm sorry -" The bartender began but she waved her hand.

 

"It's fine. It is what it is, right?" She said and laughed once, without humour. She'd found herself doing that a lot lately, laughing at things that weren't funny. She wasn't sure why. "It's coming up to three months now." She wasn't sure why she was telling him these things but once she started, she found it difficult to stop. "Three months since it became official. Took seven months for the lawyers to do whatever it is they do and all we had to do was sign our names. Then that was it. Over."

 

She hated how bitter that word sounded. She was supposed to be happy.

 

She had always been smarter than Francis, more ambitious. With their powerful family names and old money, a Poldark-Chynoweth union should have been the start of something groundbreaking. Francis could have worked with her father, allied the Poldark mining business with the Chynoweth Trading Organisation. From there they could have gone anywhere - ventured into politics, new branches of business, gone overseas... 

 

But instead, Francis contented himself with letting someone else run his business for him; he let others make the big decisions and showed up just for the occasional board meeting and event.  _What more can I want?_ Francis always used to say. That her husband was content with her, with their life and their little family, should have been enough for her. But it wasn't. It hadn't been enough and in the end, they had both come to realise that.

 

All her life she had been stifled. Her father, though kindhearted in his own way, had always been old-fashioned and narrow-minded. Business was no place for a woman, he always said. He had never groomed her to take over the family business the way he would have if she had been his son. To humour her - to  _appease_ her - he had  _allowed_ her to attend university, just as he had  _allowed_ her to take up a small position at the company. 

 

She had expected more from a husband. She had hoped she would no longer feel as though her education - her  _career -_ was something she ought to feel grateful for.

 

"Are you married?" Elizabeth changed tack, focusing her attention back on the poor, unfortunate bartender.

 

"No." The man in question said, glancing away from her. "Maybe one day."

 

Elizabeth hummed before she took a long sip of her drink. 

 

_One day._ Now that was a dangerous way of thinking. Maybe one day Francis would treat her the way she deserved. Maybe one day she would look at Ross and Demelza and not feel a deep sadness inside of her. Maybe one day she would be content. Her marriage had been filled with thoughts of  _one day._ She had clung desperately to the thought of a better tomorrow. She might have clung to that distant dream forever if not for Francis and those damn divorce papers.

 

Elizabeth sighed and threw back what was left of her drink. It was time for her to leave.

 

"I'd better -" The bartender said and awkwardly gestured to the other side of the bar, where a man in a suit had just sat down.

 

"Scotch. Neat." A familiar voice drifted over to her just as she was gathering her things to leave. 

 

With a frown, Elizabeth glanced across to the other side of the long bar. There, sat in a well-cut suit, glowering features lit up by the screen of his phone, was George Warleggan, the last person she would ever expect to run into. Elizabeth eyed him curiously, wondering what on earth George Warleggan was doing there.

 

It had been a few months since she'd last seen George. He was Francis' friend, not hers.

 

He looked very much the same, if not a little more rundown than she was used to seeing him. His dark suit was tailored and obviously expensive, but his tie was loosened and his hair was disheveled like he had been dragging his fingers through it. His facial hair was longer than she was usual to seeing it, the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow darkening his upper lip, chin, and jawline. She had only ever known George to be clean-shaven. Though, it was not a terrible look on him. If she was to be honest, she might say she even liked the look on him.

 

Elizabeth glanced at the briefcase at his feet and the tight grip he had on his scotch and wondered if he'd just left a meeting. It wouldn't surprise her; when it came to business, George was everything Francis was not. He came from new money, and he worked hard and ruthlessly for every penny of it. Ross had always despised him and his methods but they were similar in more ways than she imagined either of them realised. 

 

George worked hard because wealth wasn't something he expected, it was something he thirsted after. He hadn't been born into an old family with a hefty trustfund. His grandfather had been a mechanic. The stuffy aristocratic circles Ross and Francis had run in at university had shunned George and  _his kind._ They'd mocked him relentlessly, and treated him like he was scum on the bottom of their shoes. She had always wondered if he was making it his life's work to prove them wrong.

 

From the aggrieved way he was typing away at his phone, she doubted he would notice her at all if she picked up her things and left. She didn't have to speak to him at all if she didn't wish. She could spend the rest of her night alone, eating room service in bed. The thought - though initially appealing - was what made her mind up. Not wanting to be alone, she found herself turning towards him and calling out his name.

 

It took him a moment to register that something had called his name. He paused, eyes glancing up from his phone, and set his jaw. Elizabeth called his name again and gave a little wave from her side of the bar.

 

"Elizabeth?" George blinked, looking startled for a moment before he schooled his expression.

 

"Hello, George." She smiled, strangely happy to see a familiar face on today of all days. "How are you? It's been a while."

 

"Yes. It has." George smiled back a little awkwardly, setting his phone down on the bar. "I'm well, and yourself?"

 

"Well enough." She shrugged, liquor loosening her tongue more than she ordinarily would have liked. But she had always liked George, awkward and brusque and unscrupulous though he might be. 

 

As much as Ross liked to claim that the man was the devil, he had always been a good friend to Francis. There was a reason she had allowed Francis to name him Geoffrey Charles' godfather, after all. She knew, though Francis did his best to keep it from her, that he had paid off a great deal of her former husband's gambling debts in the past. The exact sum she had never been able to find out, all she knew was that it had been substantial. And yet George had never spoken of it, not to her, nor anyone she knew.

 

"Are you here with anyone?" George asked, glancing around the almost empty bar.

 

She shook her head. "Are you?"

 

"No." George awkwardly rubbed his jaw with the heel of his hand. "I had a late meeting in one of the conference rooms here. Thought I'd grab a drink before I headed home. My driver can drop you home as well, if you'd like."

 

"That's very kind, but actually I have a room. Here, I mean. Just for the night."

 

"Ah." George dropped his gaze to his hands, and, as if only just remembering his drink, he finished what was left of his scotch and set the glass on the bar. "Well, in that case..."

 

Elizabeth straightened, sensing that he was about to politely take his leave of her. 

 

"Stay for one more drink?" She asked, praying she didn't sound quite as pathetic as she felt.

 

George's gaze shifted to her, head tilting to one side as his eyes narrowed a fraction, as if he were trying to puzzle out her meaning.

 

"It's just a drink, George. I'm not trying to trick you out of your fortune." She said with a teasing grin.

 

A faint smirk touched George's lips. "I should hope not."

 

Thinking back, Elizabeth couldn't remember the last time she'd spoken to George without Francis present. In the early years of their marriage Francis had stuck to her side like glue whenever they went out in public, holding her hand, telling her in stage-whispers that he wanted to leave as soon as socially acceptable. She'd found it sweet in the beginning, until Ross returned from the army and stirred up old feelings that should have stayed buried.

 

After that, when the distance between her and Francis grew, she'd kept close to Verity and friends during social events. It had made it easier to bear when Francis drank himself to embarrassment and Ross paraded the lovely Demelza around as if to torment her. During evenings like that, there hadn't been much occasion to speak to George. Not when Verity made no effort to hide her dislike for the man.

 

Francis had always been a little strange about her speaking to George overly long. It wasn't jealously - no, she knew precisely what that particular expression looked like on her former husband's face - but it was something close. She had never really stopped to wonder why. George had asked her out once when they were in university, before Francis, when she was still pining for Ross. She'd said no and he had never broached the subject again. She had never told Francis. But perhaps he already knew. Perhaps George had told him.

 

"Another scotch for me." George told the bartender, then glanced at her. "Elizabeth?"

 

"A long island iced tea, please. And two shots of tequila." Because fuck it, it was her birthday.

 

The corners of George's lips quirked up, a bemused expression lighting his once guarded face. He slid off of his stool and grabbed his phone and briefcase, joining her on her side of the bar. Their shoulders brushed together as he sat down next to her, the slight glance of his jacket against her bare skin making her shiver.

 

He'd brought Francis home several months ago, while they were separated. He hadn't known. He'd half-carried her inebriated, soon-to-be ex husband into her living room in the early hours of the morning, apologising profusely. She had been furious, Francis had told her he couldn't take Geoffrey Charles that night because he was working late. She'd had work too, she'd had to ask Morwenna to babysit. She'd tried not to be angry at George too, tried not to let him get caught in the crossfire. She'd asked if he wanted to stay the night and he'd smiled, kissed her hand in that odd formal way of his, and staggered out of her house into a cab. That had probably been the last time she'd seen him.

 

"How did your meeting go?" She asked, unsure what else to say.

 

"Ah." George sighed, wrapping his long fingers tightly around his glass. "It could have been better. Though, I suppose, it could have gone much worse."

 

"Oh? How so?"

 

George glanced across at her briefly, flashing her a wry smile. "You don't want to hear about this. Let us talk about something more interesting."

 

"No, I do. I am interested." She insisted, laying her hand over his arm to press her point. She was sure whatever business dealings George Warleggan was caught up in was far more interesting than anything going on in her life. What was she going to tell him? Would they talk about her pointless position in her father's company or the day-to-day of a single mother who only got to see her child every other week.

 

"Al - alright then." George said, looking a little uncertain as he stared down at where her hand was laid over his arm. She quickly removed her hand, feeling her cheeks warm. "Well, in these last few months I have been makes plans to run in the local election next year. I had thought my position in the party was secure but it seems... not. Apparently I am an  _unfavourable_ candidate."

 

The bitterness in his tone caught her off-guard. She hadn't expected George to be truly honest with her. She had expected him to brush her interest off the way Francis always used to do.

 

"Unfavourable." She echoed and out of the corner of her eye, she saw George grimace. "Why?"

 

"An unmarried, upstart banker with a reputation of taking no prisoners. Doesn't strike the most sympathetic chord with voters."

 

Elizabeth pushed one of her tequila shots in George's direction. She looked at it pointedly until he sighed and picked it up.

 

"No, you are a young, self-made businessman who doesn't suffer fools. Put that on your campaign slogan." She said and clicked their glasses together. She threw back her shot and coughed, eyes watering as it burned a path down her throat. Beside her, George grinned and followed suit. He grimaced as he slammed his shot down onto the bar and reached for her drink, the sweetness of her long island ice tea chasing away the burn.

 

Elizabeth giggled, finding herself leaning against the bar for support, a little drunker than she had originally thought.

 

"I didn't know you were interested in politics." Elizabeth said once her laughter had subsided.

 

"Francis never mentioned it?"

 

Elizabeth snorted. "Of course not."

 

One of George's brows lifted but he didn't comment. 

 

"You know... I'm surprised you decided to stay." Elizabeth found herself saying, resting her chin on the back of her hand. "I thought Francis got you in the divorce."

 

_Like all our other friends,_ she didn't add.

 

George cocked his head to one side, his smile difficult to read. "Why would you think that?"

 

"Because you're Francis' friend."

 

George dropped his gaze, though the smile remained on his lips. 

 

"I am yours as well." He said quietly. But before she could ponder on his meaning - because she wasn't sure they had ever truly been friends outside of Francis - George lifted his head and continued, "I was sorry. To hear about you and Francis. I was going to call but I wasn't sure if you'd want me to."

 

"Thank you." Elizabeth smiled faintly, more out of habit than anything else. She took her drink back from him and ran the tip of her finger along the rim of her glass, where her lipstick was smudged. "I'd... want you to. Call, I mean. It feels like everyone has abandoned me since Francis left."

 

"I'm sorry." George never apologised, so the words meant more coming from him than anyone else. "Truly." George touched her wrist, his fingers warm against her bare skin. She looked across at him and found him watching her, the look in his eyes painfully sincere. Moments like that made it impossible for her to think of him as poorly as Ross did. George was just a man, imperfect, and flawed to the core just like all the rest of them. "I didn't mean... no, I didn't think..."

 

"It's alright, George." Elizabeth said with a hint of a smile. "I forgive you." 

 

George smiled, a small, unguarded smile few rarely saw.

 

"So tell me -" She said, adopting a mock-serious expression as she took a sip of her drink. "Why should I vote for you?"

 

The next few minutes - hours - she had no idea - passed pleasantly. George loosened up with a few drinks, complained animatedly about the stuffy fops in his party and looked infinitely more pleased when he saw just how attentively she was listening to him talk about his political aspirations. The things he was saying she had always dreamed of hearing Francis say. A man with ambition that equalled her own, that was all she had ever wanted.

 

As George rambled on about a pompous fool called Whitworth, Elizabeth was drunk enough to let her mind wander. She wondered how different her life might look if she had given up mooning after Ross and accepted George's invitation to dinner. George had none of Francis' shortcomings, not - at least - when it came to his career.

 

For the second time that night, Elizabeth found herself eyeing George Warleggan curiously.

 

George wasn't roguishly handsome like Ross, and his face didn't carry the same boyish sweetness as Francis', but he was attractive. She'd always known that. Those cheekbones could cut glass. 

 

He was always so serious, but after a few - or maybe a little more than a few - drinks, he was smiling freer, wider than she had ever seen. He had a nice smile, it was a shame she didn't get to see it more often. 

 

"'Lizabeth?" George called out, laughter slipping into his tone. "Are you listening?"

 

"'Course." She said, reaching for her drink and frowning when she found it empty.

 

"Last call." The bartender called from the other side of the bar, his attention occupied by his phone. A more sober Elizabeth would've felt sorry for the poor man, stuck with the two of them as his only customers all night. But as it was, Elizabeth snorted and demanded another drink.

 

"Actually," she said, cutting herself off. "Give me the whole bottle. Champagne to go."

 

"We don't -" The bartender began, then sighed. "Whatever. It's the end of the night, who cares."

 

Elizabeth cheered as the man grabbed a bottle of bubbly off of the shelf and slid it across the bar to her.

 

"Now can you please leave, it's been a long night. I'd like to go home."

 

George frowned, looking like he was about to protest the man's lack of manners, but Elizabeth just laughed.

 

"Of course, of course, put it all on my tab. You have a  _lovely_ night, Jim." She drawled, noticing his name tag for the first time. 

 

She grabbed the bottle and clumsily slid off of her stool onto unsteady feet. George's hand shot out, grasping her elbow to steady her. A shiver ran through her at the touch and she could only pray he didn't notice. She set her hand down on his shoulder, teetering unsteadily on much too high heels. It was a long walk back to her room but there were far too many buckles on her heels for her to be bothered with removing them.

 

"Do you -" George laughed at her expression, though his cheeks were a little more flushed than they had been a minute ago. "Do you need some help getting back to your room?"

 

"Yes," she breathed at once. "I think that would be wise."

 

George chuckled and slung his arm loosely around her waist, picking up his briefcase with his free hand. She grabbed her purse, shoved it under her armpit, and clasped the neck of her champagne bottle like a trophy. She leaned into George, enjoying the warm, solid feel of him beside her, and together they made their way out of the hotel bar, albeit rather slowly.

 

"Tom's going to hate me." She exclaimed as they crossed the lobby, talking about George's long-suffering driver and assistant. "Makin' him wait up all night to take you home."

 

"Better not." George huffed. "I pay him well enough."

 

"What a very George-like answer." Elizabeth laughed to herself.

 

It was only when they were in the lift that Elizabeth realised how close they were standing. George's arm was slung low around her waist, his fingers splayed around her hip. She could smell his cologne. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, drunk enough not to question it. Had George always smelled so good or had she simply never noticed?

 

The liquor was making her head spin. All that was keeping her upright was George, solid and steady beside her.

 

Elizabeth had always been tall and in her heels there was scarcely an inch between them in height. It made it easy for her to turn her head and rest her forehead against his cheek. George stiffened beside her, the hand at her hip flexing.

 

"Elizabeth? Are you alright?" He mumbled, a note of concern slipping into his voice. 

 

"Just a little dizzy." She lied, shifting against him as she struggled to find her footing. George's arm tightened around her and he laughed once, a short, breathless sound.

 

"You should take your heels off." He said, his voice a little strained. "Can't be easy walking around in those bloody stilts."

 

"No, I  _can't._ " She grumbled, pouting miserably. "They're new." 

 

"A birthday present?"

 

Elizabeth blinked as his words settled in. It was her birthday. She'd almost forgotten. But George hadn't. How was that even possible? 

 

She drew back abruptly enough to nearly lose her balance but she scarcely noticed. She pointed an accusatory finger at George. 

 

"How'd you know it's my birthday?"

 

George's lips curved into a grin. "Did you think I'd forgotten?"

 

"No." Elizabeth frowned. She hadn't thought George would even know what day her birthday was - or care, for that matter. "You never said..."

 

"I didn't think you wanted me to." George shrugged nonchalantly, as if they were discussing something as meaningless as the weather. "I sent flowers. Tulips. Your favourite, right?"

 

A bouquet of a dozen red and purple tulips had been delivered to her work the day before. They had arrived without a note. The other women in her office had gushed over them and speculated not-so subtly who they might be from. Elizabeth had assumed Francis - or even Ross - had sent them. They were the only ones who knew tulips were her favourite. Or so she had thought. 

 

"George..." Elizabeth began to say, at a loss for words. 

 

She was saved from having to find the words by the dinging of the elevator door as it reached her floor. George towed her out of the lift when she didn't react to the doors opening, entirely oblivious to the emotional crisis going on inside her head. 

 

Francis, the man who she had been married to for seven years, with who she shared a child, had sent her a  _text,_ while Ross, another of her supposed great loves, had signed his name to the bottom of a card his wife had no doubt picked out. Demelza, who likely despised the very ground Elizabeth stood on, showed more care and compassion than either one of the men Elizabeth had loved - and who, she feared, a part of her would always love.

 

And then there was George.

 

"This one." Elizabeth mumbled distractedly when she saw the door to her room. "408. That's me."

 

George stepped back as she rifled through her purse for her key, taking her all-but-forgotten bottle of champagne. He made a strange image, standing there in his fancy suit, holding a briefcase in one hand and champagne in the other. She fished her key out from her purse and swore under her breath when she swayed unsteadily on her heels. It took her three tries to unlock her door and when it swung open, she couldn't help but cheer.

 

She glanced back only after she'd wandered into her room, thrown her purse blindly into the room and flicked on the main light. George was standing at the threshold, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

 

"Join me for one more drink?" She asked, smiling to disguise her nerves.

 

George ducked his head, looking anywhere but at her. "I'm - uh - not sure if that's... if that's such a good idea."

 

"Please?" She took an unsteady step towards him, unable to keep herself from speaking the raw, honest truth. "I don't want to be alone."

 

George's head snapped up and his wide, startled eyes searched her face with a near desperate intensity. The look in his eyes was almost disbelieving, as though he were searching for any trace of a lie in her features. 

 

She took another step towards him until they were nearly toe-to-toe. George's hand lifted, as if to reach for her, but the briefcase he was holding stopped him. 

 

"I'm so tired of being alone, George." Elizabeth closed her eyes against the sharp twist of pain inside her. "I can't bear it."

 

She wasn't sure what she expected. In all the years she had known him, George grew stiff and uncomfortable in the face of emotions. He was an only child who lost his parents young, who had been brought up by an awful, unfeeling man. While Ross condemned him, Elizabeth had always felt a little sorry for him. It made her wonder if George, with all his wealth and power, might be the one person who might understand her - if, somewhere deep down, he was just as lonely as she was. 

 

Elizabeth never expected to hear the thump of a briefcase hitting the ground, nor the sloshing of liquid as the champagne bottle rolled into her foot, before strong arms wrapped around her, drawing her close. 

 

George was warm, steady, and he held her tightly against him without a moment of hesitation. They had hugged before, of course, but never like this. Never had George slid his hand into her hair and curved his fingers around the nape of her neck like he was holding something precious. Never had she turned her face into his neck, breathing in the smell of cologne that, in such a small amount of time, she had grown to love.

 

The tears which she had felt gathering in her eyes only seconds before were held at bay, sated by the comfort she felt in his arms.

 

"I could have killed Francis." George was suddenly whispering against the side of her head, the fury in his words catching her off-guard. "When I heard about what he did, I could have killed him."

 

"George." Elizabeth sighed, her hands tightening around the back of his jacket. She didn't want to talk about Francis.

 

"No, Elizabeth." George said, his voice hardening. "He never deserved you. Never. If you were mine, I -"

 

The words stopped as quickly as they had come, cut short before he could say too much. Beneath her hands, she felt George's shoulders tighten and a moment later he was stepping away, clearing his throat. His cheeks were flushed and once more, he was refusing to look at her. Even with her head fuzzy from drinking far too much, she knew that if she didn't say anything, George would leave and they would never talk about what happened here tonight and the words he almost said.

 

"You would what, George?" Elizabeth pressed, refusing to let him run away. "If I was yours, you would what?"

 

But George shook his head vehemently. "Don't ask me that, Elizabeth. Please."

 

"If I was yours, would you fuck another woman?" She wondered, sliding one of her hands around to his front. His chest shuddered and she swore she could feel the pounding of his heart beneath the palm of her hand. "Would you lie? Cheat?" She grasped his deep maroon tie tightly in her hand, anchoring him to her. "Would you treat me the way no woman deserves to be treated?"

 

"No." The word sounded as though it had been torn from him. George looked at her at long last with hooded eyes, his pupils blown. His expression softened ever so slightly as he shook his head, his hand shifting to brush his thumb across her cheekbone. "No, Elizabeth. If you were mine, I would never do any of those things."  

 

Despite what Francis liked to believe, Elizabeth had never been unfaithful to him during the course of their marriage. She had entertained notions of running away with Ross when he returned from the army, just as she had enjoyed the attention of handsome, cocksure men who didn't seem to care that she was a married woman, but never, not once, had she strayed from her vows. She had been almost eight months pregnant the first time Francis drank too much and came home in a state, in tears as he confessed that he had kissed some woman at the bar. He'd slept in the guest room for a month but she'd forgiven him. If only she'd known what a mistake that had been.

 

She had thought Francis had learned his lesson. He had told her he'd been drunk, that he'd made a mistake, and she had believed him. But then he met Margaret. She didn't know if there had been any others before her, but she suspected there were. 

 

Unlike the first time, Francis hadn't told her much about the affair he'd been having with an escort. All he told her was that her name was Margaret. The rest Elizabeth had had to find out on her own.

 

Throughout their marriage, Elizabeth had had fantasies, harmless dreams that were quickly forgotten in the light of day. She'd had one about George once. It had been the first dream, outside of the ones she had of Ross, that she felt almost guilty about.

 

But even then, she hadn't given the dream much thought until now.

 

"Elizabeth." George breathed, his fingers brushing against her cheek in a whisper-soft caress.

 

Elizabeth tilted her head, leaning into his touch. She liked the way he said her name. He had never called her Lizzy like everyone else, a nickname she had reviled for as long as she could remember. He took the time, sounded out every syllable in her name, uttering it softly like a prayer. 

 

In the morning, she could blame the alcohol, but in that moment, her head had never felt so clear. She leaned in slowly, letting go of his tie to run her hand up his firm chest. She settled her hand over his heart, wanting to feel it race beneath her palm. While George's hand tightened in her hair, Elizabeth was the one to close that last bit of distance between them and brush her lips against his. 

 

In her dream George had been rough, he had taken charge and kissed her with wild abandon, while in reality his heart skipped beneath her palm and the hand at her waist trembled. He kissed her back tentatively, delicately, as if he was afraid kissing her properly might break whatever spell had befallen them.

 

George pulled back when she pressed closer, attempting to deepen the kiss.

 

"We shouldn't." He said, his words at war with the way that he was looking at her, like he was a damned man and she was his salvation. Deep down, Elizabeth knew that he was right. But then, she thought, if Francis could fuck another woman and act as though their divorce was Elizabeth's fault, she could spend the night with his friend without shame.

 

"You don't have to stay, George." She murmured, ghosting the tips of her fingers over his lips. "If you want to go, I won't hold it against you."

 

"Elizabeth." He grimaced, her name coming out strained, as if he'd been punched in the gut. He squeezed his eyes closed and tipped his forehead against hers. "I want you. I've always wanted you. But you're drunk. And Francis -"

 

In the back of her mind, the more sensible part of her warned that she was edging towards a dangerous path. There wasn't just Francis to think about. There was Ross, who she still cared about, who hated George with every fibre of his being. Verity and Agatha who loathed him too. And Geoffrey Charles - she didn't imagine her son, as young as he might be, would react well if she suddenly took up with his Uncle George.

 

Elizabeth ran her fingers along his stubble-roughened cheek, smiling to herself. "Francis doesn't have to know."

 

"Fuck." George breathed and then he was kissing her. Truly, properly kissing her, turning from tentative to scorching in a heartbeat. She stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over the bottle at her feet, and felt the wall at her back. Distantly she was aware of the door closing and George's briefcase toppling over, but none of that mattered, not when he was kissing her within an inch of her life.

 

She wasn't sure who she liked more - the kind, attentive George who had listened and laughed with her all night or the George whose kisses alone were enough to make her toes curl and her thighs clench together.

 

"Are you sure?" He panted against her lips and she grinned.

 

" _Yes_." She whispered between kisses.

 

Elizabeth's frantic, impatient hands were torn between trying to press him closer and tearing the clothes off of his body. She managed to push the jacket off of his shoulders and grasped his shirt tight enough that she was sure she heard something tear. George didn't seem to care; he was running a blazing trail of kisses down her neck, his stumble deliciously rough against her bare skin. 

 

George's hands were everywhere. Running through her hair, over her breasts, down her thighs. He hitched her leg around his hip and he pressed her into the wall, grinding into her core. Her head fell back with a breathy moan and with his eyes hot on her, he dragged his teeth down the exposed line of her throat. He sucked a kiss where her neck met her shoulder with just the right amount of teeth and though she knew there would be a mark there in the morning, she couldn't bring herself to care.

 

She pulled at his shirt again, clumsily fingers struggling with the buttons. When at last she tore his shirt and tie off of him and tossed them aside, George made a low, rumbling sound deep in his throat. One of his hands skimmed up her back, finding the zipper to her dress between her shoulder blades. Her body arched, following the motion as he dragged the zipper down. Her dress, her pretty new dress, was pulled up, over her head, and tossed aside. She barely gave it a second thought. How could she when George's large, calloused hands were exploring her now bare skin and he was looking at her like he wasn't sure he could trust his own eyes?

 

"George." She murmured and breathless laughter bubbled out of her. She wanted him - God, she wanted him so much - and somehow the realisation didn't shock her as much as it should have. She bit her lip, knowing there would be no going back from this. Even if, once morning came, they blamed what happened on being drunk, it would always be a secret between them. If anyone found out, it would be explosive. Ross - Francis - they would likely never forgive her.

 

And yet, she found, she didn't care. Ross and Francis could go to hell for all she cared if they dared judge her.

 

Her eyes fell to his lips, kiss swollen and red. She felt her own curve into a smile before she leaned in close, until there was barely an inch separating their mouths. His hot breath ghosted over her parted lips and she shivered.

 

"Fuck me, George."

 

Whatever the morning brought, Elizabeth didn't care. For once in her godforsaken life, she knew exactly what she wanted.

 

George groaned and the hands that had stilled against her resumed their exploration of her bare skin. One hand grasped her breast through her lace bra, his thumb catching her nipple, while the other slid tantalisingly slowly up the inside of her thigh, edging closer and closer to where she really wanted him. And all the while he was watching her, his heavy-lidded gaze never leaving her face. She tensed in anticipation, insides clenching. She wanted him so badly she could scarcely breathe.

 

George gave a low, satisfied hum once his fingers reached their destination and found her wet through the thin fabric of her underwear. It had been so long since she'd been touched there by someone other than herself, she couldn't keep from letting out a soft, keening sound when he pressed his fingers against her clit. It wouldn't take much. It had been too long and she was already half-way there from their kisses and the anticipation alone. She reached down, impatient, and pressed George's hand harder against her. He laughed, a soft, affectionate sound, and relented. Pushing her underwear to one side, his fingers stroked over her folds before pressing inside of her.

 

"George." She cried, finding herself unable to say anything but his name. His thumb drew circles over her clit, torturously slow. "George, George -"

 

He drew back a fraction, his movements stilling. "What is it?"

 

"Kiss me." She breathed and his lips curved into a smile. He kissed her hard, tongue slipping past her parted lips, while his fingers curled inside of her. 

 

It didn't take much more than that. She came with a wordless cry against George's lips, her fingers clenching tightly around the hair at the nape of his neck. It took her a few minutes to come down from her high and for the stars to fade from her eyes. George was all that was keeping her upright; she didn't trust her weak, shaking legs - and the stupid fucking heels she still hadn't taken off - to keep her from topping to the ground in an undignified lump.

 

Elizabeth drew back slowly, heart hammering in her chest. George stared back at her, wide-eyed and dazed, with messy hair and lipstick smudged across his cheek, looking almost as wrecked as she felt. 

 

"God, Elizabeth." He groaned and then he was kissing her again, frenzied.

 

"Bed." She urged against his lips and he nodded, hands sliding down to cup her rear. The muscles in his back bunched beneath her hands and then he lifted her, carrying her to the bed as though she weighed nothing at all. He threw her down on the bed and laughter escaped her as she bounced against the mattress. She kicked off her heels and shimmied out of her underwear before she lay back against her pillows, watching George as he fumbled with his belt and shed his dark trousers.

 

Years of boxing and rowing had left him lean and strong. Those dark suits he wore every day disguised well defined muscles she had never truly noticed before. It was a travesty that they were kept hidden. And when her eyes dropped to the sizeable bulge in his tight grey underwear, the corner of her lip twitched. She certainly hadn't noticed  _that_ before today either.

 

George crawled his way up the bed once he had rid himself of everything save his boxer briefs, hands running reverently up her long, bare legs. His long, graceful fingers - which she recalled played the piano so beautifully - curled around her calf, lifting her leg to press his lips against her ankle.

 

He kissed a path up towards her knee and she giggled, his stumble ticklish against the inside of her leg. She thought she felt him smile against the side of her knee before George suddenly stilled and groaned.

 

"I don't have a condom." He explained, sighing heavily. "Fuck, I didn't expect -"

 

"I don't care." She cut him off, her voice breathless and lower than usual. "I'm on the pill. I trust you, it's okay."

 

She hadn't been with anyone since Francis and that had been almost a year ago. It was habit only that had her still taking that little pill every morning. Francis had wanted more kids, but she had wanted to wait. She'd had to live with seeing the disappointment in his eyes every time she renewed her prescription, but she had refused to give in. She had given him everything - her money, her dignity, her youth - but her body was still hers.

 

George moved up her body, hovering over her with his hands braced either side of her head.

  


"Are you sure?" He asked for the second time that night and oh, didn't that just make her want him more. She pushed at his shoulders, catching him off-guard. It allowed her guide him back firmly, using his surprise and the momentum of her body to reserve their position. He toppled back against the pillows and she sat low on his abdomen, her thighs bracketing his hips. "Elizabeth," George breathed in surprise.

 

George stared up at her, his eyes wide and bright and shining with a maelstrom of emotions. No one had ever looked at her like that, like he had never dreamed he could be here with her. Like she was so utterly unexpected he wasn't sure if he could believe his own eyes. She reached out and cupped his jaw, feeling an unexpected tenderness welling up inside of her. George leaned into her touch, his eyes sliding closed.

 

Elizabeth's fingers brushed through his hair, pushing the dirty blonde curls off of his damp forehead. His hair was soft, the thick curls sliding through her fingers, and he leaned into her touch like a cat. In all the years she'd known him, she had never seen him like this. Soft, unguarded, entirely at her mercy. This was  _George Warleggan_  she was with. It should have felt wrong - or, at the very least, strange - yet it wasn't. There was a curious feeling of inevitability. The sense that they were always going to end up here someday.

 

"I'm sure, George." She said and shifted onto her knees so she could slip her hand between them. She felt the hard line of his cock through his briefs and he squeezed his eyes tightly closed, hands curling into fists around the stark white bedsheets. She paused, glancing at him, and smiled deviously at the strained expression on his face. "Are you?"

 

"Yes." The word escaped him with a rush of air. His hands lifted off of the bed, his long fingers curling tightly around her hips when her hand slipped beneath the waistband of his briefs. "Fuck. Yes, I'm sure. I'm sure. Since the day I met you - God, I wanted you."

 

"Good." She said, struggling to maintain the same coy tone. But George tensed beneath her, fingers pressing insistently into her skin, hard enough to leave bruises. Elizabeth pressed her lips together to stop from smiling. She was tempted to tease him, to draw it out for as long as she could, but the insistent way George was grinding into her hand proved too distracting.

 

George's eyes flew open when she pushed his briefs down, freeing his trapped cock at long last. His heated gaze never left her face as she positioned herself above him, sliding down onto him with a breathless moan. The noise he made in response shot through her, emboldened her. He sounded wreck, utterly  _gutted._ She bit her lip, revelling in the pleasure-pain.

 

It had been a long time, so she was grateful that, without needing to be told, George remained still with an impressive display of self-control, letting her take him in inch by inch. His hands roved over her body, sliding up her arched back, as she adjusted to the feeling of him inside of her. She closed her eyes, finding herself unable to hold his gaze when he was looking at her like that, making  _sounds_ like that. It was almost too much for her to bear. Nimble fingers unclasped her bra, freeing her breasts. She tipped her head back at the feeling of his hands on her, rolling her hips experimentally.

 

She splayed her fingers on his chest, balancing herself as she lifted her hips. George grunted, thrusting hard from below her, making her breath catch in her throat. And then suddenly he was leaning on his elbows, drawing his knees up behind her. His fingers tangled in her hair, tight enough to make her gasp, and he drew her into a rough kiss, catching her plump lower lip between his teeth.

 

They broke apart when George bucked up sharply against her, thrusting deep inside of her. His hips flexed up as she rocked down and like that they fell into a perfect rhythm, as though they had been doing this for years, as though their bodies were attuned to each other. The angle was perfect, his pelvis dug into her clit with every thrust. 

 

Her cheek lolled against the crown of his head as he nuzzled her shoulder, lips claiming another spot on her collarbone. There would marks tomorrow. The thought alone was almost as rousing as the trail of kisses he left down her chest. His stumble rasped against her sensitive skin as his lips wrapped around her nipple, hand lifting so that her other breast wouldn't feel neglected for long.

 

This was George. This was wrong, she tried to convince herself. It was wrong, wrong, wrong but  _fuck_ , Elizabeth couldn't bring herself to care. Not when he was touching her like that, looking at her like that. He made her feel more wanted, more  _loved,_  in a single look than Francis had in all the years they'd been married. 

 

She could feel each stuttered, uneven breath against her skin, in time with the unsteady beating of her heart. It was too much. There were too many sensations, too many emotions rushing through her, she felt as though her body couldn't contain them. The hint of teeth at her breast made her back arch and she cried out desperately, tears burning hot in her eyes. His arm curled around the small of her back like a steel bar, keeping her in place as he sucked at the tight, pebbled peak of her breast. 

 

"George," she cried against the crown of his head, clutching at his broad shoulders desperately. "George, I -"

 

She wasn't entirely sure what she was trying to say, or what she was trying to ask, but George nodded against her breast. His hand slid from her breast to drop between them, pressing against where she needed him. A few rough strokes against her clit was all she needed. She shattered with a broken cry, the sound muffled against the crown of his head. Her nails dragged across the hard plane of his shoulders, body clenching around him as her vision flashed white, body shuddering with the aftershocks of her climax.

 

George's hips stuttered, losing their perfect rhythm as he chased his own release. He thrust up into her  _hard,_ face pressed into the crook of her neck, gasping for breath.

 

" _Elizabeth_." He gasped, his voice rough and low. Her name seemed to be all he was able to say. "Elizabeth, Elizabeth -"

 

George came with a breathless cry against her shoulder, her name on the tip of his tongue. He thrust into her wildly, desperately, rhythmlessly, before spending his release deep inside of her. The desperate clutch of his hands at her back and the throb of his cock inside of her was almost enough to tip of her over the edge again. She curled her fingers into his hair, blindly kissing the side of his head, overwhelmed.

 

It took them both a moment to come down. But Elizabeth was no in rush to move. Her body felt boneless, sated in a way it hadn't been in so very long. All the tension she'd been carrying for the past few months was gone. 

 

She went with him when George fell back, sagging against the pillows. She nestled her head under his chin, a soft murmur escaping her lips when he slid slowly, carefully, from her body. One of his hands stroked down her back, a smoothing motion that had her eyelids growing heavy.

 

"George?" She mumbled, her eyes falling closed very much against her will. He hummed in response, his fingers drawing small, slow circles on her back. "Tell me if I'm too heavy."

 

She felt George smile against the top of her head. 

 

"Wouldn't dream of it, my dear." 

 

Elizabeth laughed, a soft huff of air that was barely audible even in the quiet that had settled over the room. 

 

The last thing she remembered before the dark pulled her in, dragging her into a deep, dreamless sleep, was George's lips pressing a tender kiss into her hair. So Mr Scrooge had a heart after all, Elizabeth thought deliriously, already half-way asleep. She would have to remember to tell Ross in the morning...

 

 

* * *

 

Elizabeth woke the next morning with the hangover from hell. It harkened back to her university days, when she had been young and foolish enough to try to keep up with Caroline when she ordered round after round of shots. She shifted with a groan, blind pain shooting into her temples. Whatever had possessed her to drink so much? Her memory of the previous night was fuzzy, a jumbled blur that made little sense. 

 

Something was buzzing somewhere close by, the sound loud enough to have woken her.

 

She grumbled unhappily, opening her eyes a fraction. The room was too bright, meaning she must have forgotten to draw the blinds shut the night before. Muttering obscenities under her breath, she dragged her hands up to tug her pillow over her head. She was already dozing off again when the mattress dipped next to her. She didn't feel the brush of fingers against her back or hear the soft padding of feet across the floor.

 

When the buzzing resumed only a few minutes later, Elizabeth jolted awake with a groan. She reached out blindly, expecting to find her phone on the bedside table, but her fingers found only air. 

 

The buzzing continued, cutting through the silence, pulsing in time with the pounding of her heartache. Eventually, she had to sit up, swearing under her breath. Her room - well, it wasn't her room, was it? Elizabeth blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings, trying to make heads or tails of it. For a single, heart stopping moment, she couldn't remember where she was. Then her eyes caught sight of her suitcase in the corner of the room and the clothes strewn across the floor and the events of the night slowly caught up with her.

 

George. Oh  _God_ , they'd -

 

Elizabeth glanced beside her, expecting to find the man in question lying in bed beside her. Instead she found the spot vacant and all the clothes that belonged to him were gone. Only hers remained on the ground. She blinked, unsure what to make of the rising hurt and disappointment inside her chest. She pressed her lips together, ignoring the prickle of tears in her eyes, and focused her attention of locating the source of the buzzing.

 

Her purse was on the floor at the foot of the bed. Elizabeth clutched the sheets to her chest and crawled over, snatching it up. She fished her phone out of her purse and huffed at the number of missed calls from Francis.

 

It was seven o'clock in the morning, her head was killing her, and for whatever reason, George had decided to sneak out without a word. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to her ex-husband. But it could be about Geoffrey Charles, a little voice in the back of her head reminded her. So she sighed, leaned back against the headboard, and lifted her phone to her ear.

 

"Hello?" Francis answered on the fourth ring, his voice - sounding impossibly loud - make her wince and clutch her head. "Lizzy?"

 

"Yes," she huffed. "Is everything alright?"

 

"Of course," Francis replied at once. "Why would anything be wrong?"

 

"Because it's seven in the morning and you're calling me, Francis." She muttered as dry as a desert.

 

"What? So something has to be wrong for me to want to call you?" He said and she could practically hear the indignant frown in his tone. "I just wanted to see what time you wanted me to drop Geoffrey Charles off tomorrow."

 

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, resisting the urge to toss her phone across the room.

 

"Texting, Francis. A novel thing. Surely you've heard of it."

 

There was a pause and then, "Maybe I wanted to hear your voice. Would that be so terrible, Lizzy?"

 

Elizabeth bit her lip to stop herself from saying something she might later regret. She was so tired though, so tired of how Francis' moods shifted and turned like the tide. She was tired of the comments. She was sick to death of the late night phone calls when his whore was gone and he was lonely. Every time she hated him, but always -  _always -_ she came out of it hating herself more. 

 

"Francis..." She murmured, her voice low with warning.

 

Distracted as she was, she almost didn't notice when the bathroom door suddenly creaked. She looked up, startled, in time to see George step back into the room, hair dripping wet, towel tied low around his hips. For a moment, all she could do was stare. Something warm and hopeful and unexpected fizzled inside of her. The hurt she had felt at finding him gone faded him memory and a slow smile spread across her face. But then she heard Francis' voice in her ear, calling her name, and it jolted her back to the present.

 

"I have to go now, Francis." She interrupted whatever Francis was saying, distracted by the droplets of water running down George's bare chest. "Don't call again unless it's an emergency."

 

It felt good - cathartic - to hang up on him and toss her phone aside. 

 

"You stayed." Elizabeth murmured, the words small and soft and hopeful.

 

"Of course." George responded, a bemused expression on his face. "Would you rather I hadn't?"

 

George's walls were back up. His voice, his expression - they gave nothing away.

 

"No, of course not." Elizabeth protested, her cheeks warming. She clasped her hands together on her lap to disguise the way they trembled. "I was just - I was worried you might -"

 

"Worried I might...?" George waved his hand vaguely, gesturing for her to finish the train of thought. Elizabeth stared down at her hands, unable to look at him.

 

"I was worried you might regret what happened last night." She told him, mortified that she'd had to spell it out for him.

 

Exhaling heavily, George sat down at the foot of the bed. He startled her by reaching out and grasping one of her hands. He held her hand in both of his, cradling it like it was some precious thing, before he lifted it to his lips. The gesture shouldn't have shocked her. Not after last night. Not after their long years of acquaintance. George had kissed her hand countless times in the past but never before had her skin prickled where his lips touched nor had she shivered, remembering where his lips had been only mere hours ago.

 

"Elizabeth." George murmured against her hand, eyes falling closed. "I don't regret what happened. I could never regret it."

 

She breathed a sigh of relief, the tension she'd been carrying bleeding away.

 

"I meant everything I said last night." George continued, turning her hand to kiss the inside of her palm. "Loneliness is not one-sided, Elizabeth. You're not the only one who feels alone... Especially when -"

 

The words - confessed to her in a near whisper - stole the breath from her lungs. She sensed, from the way he suddenly stopped, that he left some things unsaid. That there was another confession, closer to his heart, that he dared not say. Elizabeth had been too drunk the night before, too lost in lust, to question the depth of his feelings. The things he'd let slip - and the way he had looked at her - it made her wonder if George's feelings for her ran deeper than she ever would have guessed.

 

"You don't have to say anything. I don't expect..." George said when she took too long to respond, letting go of her hand as his expression grew stiff and closed off.

 

"Oh, George." She murmured, wondering how the masks he put up had ever fooled her before. She saw the flicker of hurt beneath his stony facade, saw it as clear as day in the way he wouldn't look at her and his clenched jaw. Elizabeth shifted, letting the sheets fall away as she leaned across the distance between them. She touched her hand to his cheek, urging him to look at her. "I don't regret what happened last night either. Only that I had  _way_  too much to drink."

 

It would make this conversation a lot easier to follow if her head wasn't killing her.

 

"This is all just so... unexpected." She admitted when he finally lifted his eyes and met her gaze. "I thought I'd be married to Francis forever. I never thought - I never thought I'd be here with you, or anyone else - but I -"

 

George's lips twisted in a faint, rueful smile. "It's alright, you don't need to explain. I understand."

 

"No, you don't." She let out an exasperated breath. "What I was going to say, is that I'm  _glad_  I'm here with you, George. Unexpected or not, I like you and I think - maybe - we could make each other happy. So I'm willing to give whatever this is between us a shot if you are." 

 

George's eyes flickered up and a frown settled over his features. She knew that expression. She'd seen it often enough the night before. To show him that what she was saying was true, that she meant every word, Elizabeth cupped his face in both her hands and closed the remaining distance between them. Her lips brushed against his, feather-light, sealing her words with a kiss. George remained still, his jaw clenched beneath her hands. Tenderly, she ran her thumbs across the tops of his cheekbones and leaned her forehead against his. She watched his expression intently, waiting for her words, both spoken and unspoken, settle in.

 

Then George was looking at her -  _really_ looking at her - his eyes searching her face for any trace of a lie.

 

She watched the doubt and the fear and the insecurity fade from his eyes, melting into something warm and tender that made her heart beat an uneven staccato. 

 

_Elizabeth was born to be adored,_ she had once overheard Ross telling Demelza. The words had been cruel and derivative. But when had she received the love she so desperately craved? Not from her father, who had made it his life's work to ignore and underappreciate her. Not from her mother, whose idea of showing affection was to criticise. Certainly not from Ross, her first love, who had abandoned her to play soldier and expected her to wait for him. Francis had loved her, but their lovestory had been short-lived. His adoration had burned out far sooner than she ever would have guessed, leaving her cold and empty and  _alone_.

 

So perhaps, in a sense, Ross was right. Perhaps she  _had_  been born to be adored, she simply hadn't received the love she deserved yet.

 

George leaned in, something unspoken passing between them as his hands lifted to tenderly brush her long hair away from her face. He exhaled softly, resting his forehead against hers. Elizabeth smiled. The bitter loneliness that had been plaguing her for so long was the furthest thing from her mind. Her hands slid into his hair, curling around his rumpled blonde curls.

 

"I have to be at work by nine." He told her, his breath warm against her lips.

 

"Then that only gives us, what? Two hours?" She frowned, unable to hide her disappointment.

 

George's lips curved into a grin and then he was guiding her back against the bed, a wicked gleam in his eye.

 

"My dear Elizabeth, you underestimate what I can do in two hours."

**Author's Note:**

> So somehow my first time writing smut somehow turned into a 10K+ fic. But my love for George and Elizabeth knows no bounds and I had a blast writing this. I'm considering writing a small little sequel where everyone finds out about George/Elizabeth because writing modern!Poldark is just too much fun.
> 
> Thanks for reading! This is my first time writing in this fandom so let me know what you guys think <3


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